


I'm trying to be good

by ScrambledSparrow



Category: Original Work
Genre: Accidental Drug Use, Altered Mental States, Bipolar Disorder, Blood, Blood and Injury, Canon Disabled Character, Gen, Head Injury, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Injury Recovery, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other, Pre-Relationship Cyril/Viktor, Unspecified Award Banquet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 16:15:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21341080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScrambledSparrow/pseuds/ScrambledSparrow
Summary: Cyril is thrilled after he's invited to an award banquet for engineering grad students.He's less thrilled to end up in the hospital because of it.
Relationships: Chaos Household, Cyril & Abbadon, Cyril & Viktor, Cyril/Abbadon, Original Character(s) & Original Character(s), Original Character(s)/Original Character(s), Original Male Character(s) & Original Male Character(s), Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 3





	I'm trying to be good

**Author's Note:**

> Abbadon and Viktor belong to cryptid-possum!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, parts of this chapter is kind of dodgy due to Cy's limited perspective-  
It's just Viktor trying to help him, but he doesn't know that.

When the invitation comes in the mail, Cy almost tosses it out with the rest of the junk. In his defense, it really does look like a spam letter. But it was addressed to a Mr. Cyril Milani, a deceptively plain envelope on top of an identical one for Viktor. That was enough to catch his attention, eyebrows raised as he redirects to the kitchen to set everything down and tear it open. It's an invitation to an engineering conference, and he is being asked to share some of his research on bioinstrumentation and integrated prostheses. 

Him, specifically.

Cyril sits down, blinking wide-eyed at the paper. He is being asked for by name to attend a biomechanics panel and share some of his projects. It's not really that big of an achievement, but it's the first time it's ever happened to him. Excluding his roommate, it's the first time he's ever felt like he's being taken seriously as a scientist.

"VIKTOR!"

* * *

Cyril laughs, giddy from adrenaline and simple joy. The panel went well, even if he hardly remembers most of it, caught up in his excitement so that he was nearly vibrating in his seat. He’s joking with strangers at the reception now, wanting to know more about the types of people who usually attend these events, to see if anyone had any new connections to make; he went to nearly every single one when he was an undergrad, but he was desperately trying to network as one does. Ironically, it didn’t even matter in the end- he bumped into Viktor at a public emerging tech conference of all places, doing some stress-related maintenance on his leg after walking all over the convention center. Sometimes chasing opportunities down was a good idea, but sometimes it was better to just let them come to you, he figures.

Most of the people here are already accomplished, well-known and well-respected like Viktor and Lux, and somehow Cyril managed to earn an invitation. That was going to take a while to get used to. The rest of the crowd is younger students from pretty reputable establishments and there are so many of them; he feels terrible every time he shakes someone’s hand and immediately forgets their name.

He’s talking at length about something mechanic, he doesn’t quite remember where the conversation started or even where it’s going, when someone passes around a few paper cups of water. The air is dry and warm from so many people- he gulps one down without a second thought. The aftertaste is a little shitty, but it’s probably tap water anyways, so who’s surprised? Cy has to talk a little louder than usual to be heard in the crowded room, and it’s _hot_ from the sheer number of bodies in a small space, so it's definitely appreciated. And there’s an open bar that a lot of people were frequenting, taking the opportunity to get drunk and celebrate, but alcohol doesn’t seem like a great idea right now. Or ever, to be frank. Not for him, not anymore. Ah well. Water's boring but it's reliable.

He shifts his weight and leans against Viktor's side, catching his breath after a long and enthusiastic explanation of his current project, and just observes the room for a minute. It’s a challenge to resist laughing at some of the wide-eyed glances exchanged when people notice him tucked so casually against his roommate, but it’s crowded and he knows Viktor is more than capable of supporting his weight if he felt like being particularly obnoxious. It definitely sent the wrong ideas, which makes him want to bother poor Viktor even more.

He could only imagine how those expressions might change if they were able to see his actual boyfriend- Cy snorts out loud at the thought. Abbadon is hitching a ride in Viktor's phone ("it's nicer than yours" he deadpanned, and Cy couldn't really be offended when he was laughing so hard he was nearly in tears) so he's technically here, just out of sight. Maybe he could sneak off to check in on him in a little bit. Besides, what’s a little celebrity gossip in an academic circle? People could whisper than he and Vik were dating. It’s not like anyone actually gave a shit whether or not the rumors were true, anyways.

He zones out for a little while, lost in thought and contemplative. There's a low ambient buzz of energy in the room, Viktor solid and warm against him. This was nice. He has to take a couple moments to regroup just so he didn't burn out, but this was nice. Someone makes an off-hand comment about prostheses and his attention is caught; Cyril’s expression lights up, and he moves closer towards the commenter so he doesn’t feel like he has to shout across the group as much.

He doesn’t miss the look on the student’s face halfway through the sudden conversational input, especially when he nearly trips over his own damn foot and grabs onto them instinctively. He’s quick to scramble back and apologize, though- shit, what was their name? Had they already been introduced? Cy wasn’t quite sure, but does his best to roll with it.

Someone else calls him over, face lighting up with recognition he doesn’t share- he’s already forgotten their name, too, whoops. Maybe this is why networking never really worked so well?- and he waves to Viktor and gestures, and the other man gives him a thumbs up while a half dozen dazzled students are all vying for his attention.

Cyril feels a little bit off, and figures he’ll sit down for a little bit after this conversation wraps up, tempted to ask one of his new friends to get him something safe from the bar. They ate before heading over, but that was still an hour or two ago... Orange juice, maybe? A soda? The adrenaline high from this evening is already starting to bottom out hard and he’s ignoring the fact that it feels like all he wants to do is take a nap right here on the floor. Caffeine might help wake him up, right? 

He asks something to that effect out loud, and a couple of people give him a long look after glancing amongst themselves. “I can’t drink, I’m, uh, the designated driver,” he lies, trying to justify his decision. It isn’t any of their business, and most of them seem younger than him, anyhow. Why did they care?

Cyril tugs at the collar of his dress shirt, suddenly self-conscious and stifled. Why were they still making those faces? It’s totally normal to not drink in a professional environment.

Wait, hold on. He's with the same group, right? He can’t quite remember their faces, maybe he just wandered into the wrong crowd. Somebody steps closer, is standing right in front of him, and he’s way too warm to have someone that close. They’re saying something- he only catches a few fragments, not all of them addressed to him, _really pale_ and _he okay_ and _understand that?_\- and there are hands on his shoulders, his arms, and someone is touching his face.

He staggers backwards, nervous and confused, and tries to laugh it off.

“I’m taken, actually, but I’m flattered,” he jokes warily, brushing his damp bangs out of his face. It was really warm in here, what the hell-? Someone touches his shoulder again, and they were getting way too close for comfort, and he bumps into someone entirely different trying to back up. More people were turning, staring at him with those unsettling expressions, and Cyril feels like he is going to vibrate right out of his skin.

“I’m sorry, I- excuse me, I…” he mumbles, trying to squeeze through the crowds of people to somewhere less crowded. Is he having a manic episode right now? He really doesn’t feel like himself. He stumbles into somebody as the room tilts, legs abruptly threatening to buckle, gasping a quick apology before he darts away. The bathrooms are this way, right-? He was pretty sure.

He staggers through the door and flinches at the noise, glancing around as if he would have been followed. No, thankfully, the men’s room is empty and he goes right to the mirrors, swiping his hands under the faucets until they drizzle cool water. It’s not enough to try and splash on his face, but the feeling helps ground him, just a little bit.

He exhales shakily. He's baffled that his hands aren’t visibly trembling as he expects they would be. Cy makes eye contact with his pallid reflection and startles, wet hands touching his own face- that’s him, right? That didn’t look like him… Why did he look like that? Shit. Fuck. This wasn’t right. He should call Viktor. Viktor would know what to do. He should call Viktor, but first, he feels a little bit like he might throw up?

Cyril spins on his heel, intending to dart into one of the stalls, but everything’s moving way too fast and he trips, slamming into the thin divider between doors. He scrambles back up to his knees and lurches fully into a stall just in time to vomit. He clings to the toilet bowl as he gasps for air, wondering if he’s going to throw up again, and something small and warm is suddenly touching the side of his face. He swats at the air and then at his skin, trying to push it away because he’s _overheating dammit leave him alone_, and something splatters on the gross public bathroom tiles and on his navy slacks.

He freezes, looking back at his hands- what the hell, why were they red- why was there blood spattered across the floor? It’s getting harder to understand what he’s seeing and he scrubs his sleeve across his face to wake himself up a little, but all that happens is he gets blood on his nice dress shirt and shit, wait, that might actually be coming from _him_.

He tries to push himself up to stand, but he feels nauseous and dizzy as he slumps back over, and actually it might be a better idea to stay here in case he vomits again. Plus, his body feels like lead- his hands are clammy and slick with blood, and he isn’t sure if he can feel his prosthetic anymore or if the impact with the ground knocked something loose. Cyril groans, leaning his forehead onto the marginally-cooler toilet seat while he tries to gather his thoughts.

He closes his eyes, for just a moment- he just needs a second to think, and for the room to stop swaying, and distantly he registers footsteps and voices and there’s something touching him again. Hallucinations can’t touch him, right? That might be a problem.

He jerks to the side, moving away and pressing himself against the cold metal wall; he wants to curl up and make himself as small as possible so the hands and muffled voices will leave him alone, but his body isn’t quite responding and he doesn’t think he can move his legs anymore.

“Please,” he whimpers, trying to swat at the hands that insist on touching him.

“Please, don’t, I just need to find my friends, stop, I need to leave, _please_-” his voice cracks when there’s a hand that’s touching his face and his hair, and the voices around him get louder, and he’s not sure if he’s crying or shouting or saying anything at all anymore, but he can definitely tell he’s shaking and he’s far too tired to throw up again but his stomach revolts and he’s so dizzy.

“Please,” he tries again, weakly pushing away the body leaning over him as he crumples, bloody smudges left behind on skin and clothing. Someone is talking, low and soft, and it’s not him but there’s too much going on.

He’s panting, suddenly, trying to catch his breath through the band of panic crushing his chest. The voice gets frantic and louder and he knows he should be able to place it but he can’t, not right now. The room is spinning, he’s so tired. He feels like he’s suffocating and falling and floating at the same time.

Cyril lets go.

* * *

He’s only aware of things in disjointed fragments after that. 

Something bright shining in his eyes, and unfamiliar voices asking questions. He’s not sure if they’re speaking to him. Too many hands and too many faces, something forcing his head to the side, something briefly stuck in his mouth that’s gone before he can push it away. He groans at the pain, unable to do much else; his tongue is thick and leaden, and isn’t sure he could find words to answer them anyways. He drifts off.

Pressure on his chest, and something underneath his body, and the hum of machinery and voices. He thinks he’s laying on his back, but he’s not quite sure. Everything is rocking and loud and too bright, and he squeezes his eyes shut before he has the chance to vomit again.

Brisk, clipped voices, and something pinching the inside of his arm- he cries out and struggles, trying to move away, abrupt icy fear waking him up enough to react, fingers scrabbling for the needle in his skin and _pulling_\- and everything goes to shit.

Everything gets a lot louder, his arm hurts like hell and feels warm and wet, voices shouting and so many hands grabbing him roughly that he can’t shake off and he’s trying to explain himself and trying to get away and there’s pain and he panics more when he can’t move, twisting and yelling for somebody to help him, please, he’s not supposed to be here, he doesn’t know what’s going on, a brief sting and then he’s falling again.

His eyes flutter open at one point, and he tries to twitch away from the hands unbuttoning and peeling away his shirt, but his body is too heavy and his arms won’t move anymore. He whimpers, trying to curl in on himself, and there’s a low, familiar voice somewhere above him that he holds on to like a lineline.

He can’t do much else aside from shake while someone undresses him, but they stop at his shirt and someone is holding his hand and still murmuring to him, and he wants to cry because he’s not quite sure what’s going on or where he is but he’s too tired to do anything other than hold tighter and hope they don’t leave because he’s so fucking scared.

A few times he surfaces again, he swears he knows the voice speaking to him, underneath the dull staccato bursts of chatter and nonsense filling the background. He wants so badly to put a name and face to the sound, but the closer he gets to an answer, the faster it slips away.

He knows he speaks, sometimes, slurred voice pleading for people who might not be there, but he can’t remember what he said. He hears unfamiliar voices a few times, and only processes snippets of conversation, some kind of back-and-forth going on above his head. He hears accident and hospital and tries to open his eyes, because he wants to know what they’re talking about so softly, like he can’t hear them, but it’s too much effort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For once I have an actual plan, woah-
> 
> Sorry for leaving it off on a cliffhanger but also I'm really not ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
Cy's fine, I promise
> 
> In case anyone's wondering, liquid ketamine takes anywhere from five to thirty minutes to take effect


End file.
